


Upside Down

by superangsty



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, by which i mean tom and shiv are not together and also this is just. a The Proposal au, the title is obviously a reference to the Definitive tomgreg song by bnl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superangsty/pseuds/superangsty
Summary: Greg's having visa problems. Tom has a solution.Or, the tomgreg The Proposal au that absolutely nobody but me was asking for.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	Upside Down

**Author's Note:**

> finally the fic I've been posting vaguely about for weeks is DONE! May require some suspension of disbelief purely because I had to mess with the show timeline a WHOLE bunch to try make it make sense within the plot of The Proposal. Just don't think about it too hard and you'll be fine.

Greg snoozes his alarm when it starts blaring. Okay, so he snoozes it a few times. Not that many. Five times. Can you blame him, though, when he only got in at three this morning?

Still, when it goes off the sixth time and he finally rolls over to unlock his phone and turn it off properly, he blinks at the time on the screen for a few seconds before realising that he’s now running almost an hour late.

Shit.

He jumps out of bed and pulls on the cleanest looking suit he can, then he goes into the bathroom, splashes his face with water, takes a swig of mouthwash and rushes out the door.

It’s not far to the office from his apartment in Tribeca, maybe a 20 minute walk, but he normally catches a cab so that he doesn’t show up to work sweaty and smelling like a dozen different people’s cigarette smoke mixed up into one. Unfortunately, today he doesn’t have time to hail a cab and sit in traffic, so instead he jogs (you can’t expect him to _run_ the whole way, he’s not an athlete), weaving through the crowds of people until he reaches the Starbucks opposite the Waystar Royco building.

Because he’s late, it’s right in the middle of the morning rush and the queue is practically out the door. But, because he’s late, Greg doesn’t have _time_ to stand and wait in a queue, but he can’t _not_ stand and wait in the queue because his boss describes the coffee they sell at the office as ‘actual garbage, Greg’. He wishes there was a fire alarm he could pull, make everyone else leave so that he can skip the queue.

Luckily, the girl at the till – Jillian, he thinks, pretty in a girl kind of way and always nice to him – catches his eye and holds up two coffee cups.

“Greg!” she says, smiling, and hands the cups to him once he’s pushed past the people. “Here you go, your regular lattes.”

“You’ve literally saved my life,” Greg thanks, and then he rushes out the door and runs across the street, through security, and into the elevator.

He makes it up to ATN’s floor and feels at least half of his tension disappear when he realises Tom’s not there yet. Sure, looking at his watch tells him that he could be there any second, but the fact that he’s _not_ means that Greg has at least a moment to slow down, go to his desk, and relax.

So, naturally, he crashes into the mail cart and spills the coffees all over himself.

Fuck.

*

Tom’s having a stressful morning. This isn’t saying much; most of his mornings are stressful, he’s the head of a major news outlet, but this morning is a particularly high-stress one. He’s had Cyd on his ass for a week to convince some leftist politician to come on for an interview, and really _how_ is Tom meant to do that when he has exactly zero connections in Washington? Then, of course, this morning he had to cut his run in half because he got a call from PR informing him that even _more_ Ravenhead Nazi shit has leaked, so now he has to lie and tell everyone it’s all a big misunderstanding while working out the least suspicious way to fire that guy.

So he’s kind of off his game when he walks into the office, which explains why it doesn’t even occur to him to insult his useless assistant for wearing a shirt that doesn’t match his suit.

“Hey, Tom,” says Greg, taking an awkward (everything he _does_ is awkward, the giant) step forward to hand Tom his coffee. “Uh, Cyd wanted to see you as soon as you got in? I can buy you maybe fifteen minutes but she said she needed to see you before the executive’s meeting at 10, so…”

Greg slides a folder across Tom’s desk as he talks, which Tom opens and flips through. Briefing for the meeting today, way too many pages to read through in an hour. Shouldn’t he have got this yesterday?

“Tell Cyd to fuck off,” he says, absently, which he knows Greg won’t do because they _both_ know that despite what the org chart says about them being on the same level, Cyd has always and will always have hierarchy over Tom. “Then go talk to PR, we need another press release on Ravenhead.”

Greg frowns. “Again? Wasn’t the last one, like, a month ago?”

Tom looks at him, raises his eyebrows. “Is it any of your business? Just go do what I say. Shoo.”

Greg starts shuffling out and Tom picks up his coffee, about to take a sip when something makes him pause.

“Greeeeg,” he says, and Greg immediately freezes, turns to face him. “Who is ‘Jillian’, and why does she want me to ‘call her’?”

Tom doesn’t date, because Tom doesn’t date women but _because_ he’s the public face of the country’s most conservative news company he doesn’t have any alternatives, and even if Tom _did_ date women then the women Tom would be dating would _not_ be Starbuck’s baristas, so if this is Greg’s attempt at setting him up with someone he’d better have a damn good explanation.

“Oh, um, it’s actually kinda _my_ coffee?”

Greg doesn’t date either, or he _shouldn’t_ date because if he has time for dating then clearly Tom’s not giving him enough work.

“And why, Greg, am I drinking _your_ coffee?”

“Because yours spilled?”

Tom takes a slow sip, continuing to look pointedly at Greg. “So you drink unsweetened cinnamon light soy lattes.”

Greg shrugs. “It’s like Christmas in a cup.”

Clearly, this is not a coincidence. “So that’s a coincidence?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Also, Christmas? Aren’t you Jewish?”

Tom kind of wants to give himself a pat on the back for that one. People call him a horrible boss, they say he doesn’t care about his employees, but what horrible boss would bother to remember something like ‘oh, my assistant has a Jewish surname, better make sure the ATN crowd don’t get _too_ anti-semitic’?

Though, okay, that might be the _only_ thing he knows about Greg besides ‘he’s an average assistant that I hired as a favour to Kendall Roy’. Besides, it’s Greg’s job to know everything about _Tom_ , not the other way round.

Greg does a weird half-frown, half-smile, then mumbles “half Jewish,” before continuing louder, “actually, it _is_ a coincidence, um.” The phone starts ringing, and Greg wanders over to it. “I mean, ha, I wouldn’t buy the same coffee as you just in case yours spilled, that would be kinda…”

He doesn’t finish, just picks up the phone. “Tom Wambsgans’ office. Oh. Hi, Mark.”

Ravenhead. Delightful. And predictable, because he obviously knows he fucked up this time. Tom waves a hand and puts down his coffee, standing up.

“He’s, uh, he’s actually on the way to your office right now. Yeah. Okay, Mark, see you in a minute. Yeah. Bye.” Greg puts down the phone and looks up at Tom. “Why are you going to Mark’s office?”

Tom raises his eyebrows and smiles for a second too long, just until understanding dawns on Greg’s face, then he heads out of his office to go fire Mark Ravenhead.

*

Tom always walks annoyingly fast, so Greg is trotting along beside him trying to find an opportunity to cut in on Tom’s ranting and explain that actually he can’t come in and fire Mark with him and not just because Greg is terrified of conflict but because Kendall sent him a text asking him to come up to his office for a chat.

The first opportune moment is when they’re right outside Mark’s door, and Tom is pissed (Tom is _always_ pissed so it’s not a big deal), but he’s a businessman who firmly believes in the power of kissing up to your seniors so he lets Greg go without much complaint.

Greg doesn’t love going to the upper floors where the Roys keep their offices. He doesn’t like thinking about how if he was just a regular assistant his pass wouldn’t even have clearance for those floors, but because he’s ‘one of them’ he gets free roam, and he doesn’t like that unlike the people at ATN (even Tom, weirdly), who are oblivious to who Greg is, everyone upstairs recognises him and every single one of them knows that he’s nothing more than a nepotism hire.

Whatever, though. He doesn’t get called up there much, maybe once a week, and only ever to help with stupid requests – which Roman asks specifically to annoy him and get him away from Tom, and which Logan asks because he genuinely doesn’t seem to know how to use computers. At least the snacks are better than at ATN.

Kendall’s leaning against the front of his desk when Greg walks in, looking at his phone. “Greg, you went with Wambsgans to Argestes the other week, right?”

“Hey, Kendall,” Greg says, which is at least enough to make him look up. “Uh, yeah, I did. We had brunch, remember?”

Kendall looks at him blankly. “Right.” He shakes his head, waves his phone at Greg. “Well, anyway, I just got an email from legal saying that you weren’t meant to leave the states while your work visa’s getting processed.”

“Oh.” Greg had known this, actually. But Tom had yelled at him when he said he couldn’t come and eventually it had seemed like less hassle to just go. Easier to beg forgiveness, and all that. Plus, he’s a Roy. Kind of. Roys don’t worry about stuff like visas. “But you can make it go away, right?”

Kendall sighs. “We can, but it might be easier if you go home for a couple months. Six at most. Maybe a year, we’ll see how it plays out.”

“Oh.” Oh. Just as Greg was starting to feel settled in that gargantuan apartment of his. And he’d been thinking about getting a cat, too. Well, it’s not the longest Greg’s ever held a job but it’s certainly not the shortest. And at least it’s a chance to get out from under Tom. “And, um, my job?”

“We’ll sort something out.” Kendall’s phone pings and he looks down at it again. “Speak to Jess outside. Toronto, maybe, or do you wanna be closer to home? I think we have something in Montreal. Oh, and a promotion when you get back to New York, as a thank you.”

“Right, I’ll just –” _I’ll just go pack up my whole life and move back to my hometown, then_ , Greg thinks. No consequence to anyone at all except for him. Tom would find a new assistant within the week.

“Later, Greg. You’re still coming to my dad’s birthday thing this weekend, right?”

Greg forces a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

*

Tom doesn’t see Greg for an hour, not until after Ravenhead’s been escorted out by security and he’s walking out of Cyd’s office after their meeting (which could’ve been an email, but she likes him to suffer).

When Tom _does_ see Greg, however, he nearly trips over his own feet in shock because Greg isn’t sat at his computer, working diligently, Greg is standing over his desk packing his things (including the frankly quite irritating number of funko pops) into a cardboard box.

“What the fuck, Greg?” Tom asks, raising his voice to just loud enough that everyone in the office can hear, turn their heads to see what’s going on, and then immediately turn back to their work and pretend they can’t hear anything.

“Oh, um, I’m leaving?”

“Yeah, I can see that. What happened to two weeks’ notice, huh?” What happened to ‘he’s a shit assistant but also the most loyal person I know’?

“Yeah, I know, it’s just. Kendall said I’m transferring to one of the Canada offices, so…” Greg shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, like he’s not _abandoning_ Tom here in the middle of a Thursday morning in front of all his employees.

Greg knows too much. Greg was there when Tom was still in cruises, Greg destroyed evidence for him, they have a _bond_ , god dammit. That’s not the sort of thing you get every day and it’s _definitely_ not the sort of thing you let go of.

“Like hell you are.”

“Tom.” Greg shoves his hands into his pockets, looks down at his shoes. “It’s my visa, I _told_ you me going to Argestes would have consequences, and, like, here they are. This is the consequence.”

He barely remembers that conversation, just that Greg was being irritating and then he wasn’t anymore because Tom had convinced him to agree with him.

“You’re getting _deported_?” Tom asks, his voice rising again. Now, people aren’t even pretending not to look.

This is worse. This is Tom’s fault. Well, no, it’s not Tom’s fault, it’s Greg’s fault, but it also kinda _is_ Tom’s fault and is maybe the sort of thing that would inspire a need for revenge. Which means that he can’t let Greg leave.

Fuck.

Greg still has the rest of the day to work, and Tom sits in the two-hour long executives meeting planning and trying not to stare too obviously at Greg, who’s sitting with the other assistants in a row at the back of the room.

The plan he finally comes up with is stupid, it’s one of the worst plans Tom’s ever had in his life. But he can’t think of anything else, and time is running out, and he _can’t_ lose Greg, so when the meeting’s over and everyone’s getting up he marches over to Greg, grabs him by the wrist, and pulls him out into the corridor where Kendall Roy is.

“Mr Roy! Wait up,” he says, silently cursing as he feels Greg stumble to keep up with him.

Kendall turns, looking at him expectantly.

“Mr Roy, Greg told me about the visa thing, but it’s fine. He doesn’t have to go.”

Greg looks at him, eyes wide in confusion. “I don’t?”

“He doesn’t?” Kendall repeats, blinking at Tom.

“No, because… Well.” Tom laughs, short and awkward, then slides his hand down from Greg’s wrist to clasp his hand instead. “We’re getting married.”

Greg looks at Tom, mouth open like he’s about to protest, but Tom just squeezes his hand tighter, hoping he’ll get the message.

He does, apparently, and there’s a few moments of silence where Tom feels like he might actually genuinely die, before Kendall blinks again and says “I suppose you should come up to my office, then,” and leads them into the elevator.

The three of them stay silent until Kendall’s office door shuts behind them, at which point Kendall sits behind his desk, waves for them both to sit down too, and says “so what the fuck,” monotone like it’s not a real question.

“Um,” Greg replies, helpful as always.

Kendall sighs and looks at Tom. “I thought Cyd explained when you got to ATN that you needed to keep your whole…” he waves a hand at Tom’s general state of being, “gay thing under wraps. And your assistant, Wambsgans, really?”

Tom takes a moment, breathes, then puts on his professional face and smiles. “And that’s precisely why we haven’t told anybody. The public… the public doesn’t need to find out.”

“Oh but they _will_ ,” Kendall says. “They always do. So you’d better be really fucking sure about this.”

“I am.” Tom reaches over to Greg and squeezes his knee. He turns to catch his eye, smiling softly in a ‘ruin this and I’ll kill you’ kind of way. “We are. Right, honey?”

“Um,” Greg says again.

“Right,” Kendall says, frowning as he watches Greg. “Odd, though, Greg, that you didn’t mention it to me. I didn’t know you were – I didn’t know you dated.”

Why would _Kendall Roy_ care about the love life of some random assistant like Greg, Tom wonders. Maybe it’s a sexual harassment thing, like you’re meant to report it if your boss makes a move on you. But still, why would that concern the COO?

“Um,” Greg says, glancing at Tom desperately. _Don’t ruin this for us_ , Tom thinks. “It was all very… sudden, I guess. And it’s like Tom said. We had to, uh, keep it quiet.”

Kendall stares at them both for a few more moments, clicking his pen, before saying “whatever, just get the legal stuff sorted out quickly, yeah?” and turning back to his paperwork like the conversation had never happened.

Tom and Greg are standing up to leave, Greg looking shaken up and slightly ill, when Kendall says one last thing. “Oh and Greg? Bring him along to the Hamptons for the long weekend. If you want, I mean. I just – it’s fine, okay?”

“Oh.” Greg blinks, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Uh, sure. Thanks, Ken.”

What the _fuck_.

*

What the fuck.

Greg really hopes that he’s still asleep, that this is all one elaborate bad dream because the alternative is accepting that his life is turning into a living nightmare, what the _fuck_.

In a weird way, he’s kinda touched that Tom is willing to commit fraud to keep him working here. But knowing Tom, this is gonna turn out to be related to the whole cruises thing, and Greg had _really_ been hoping they could both just move on from that and forget about it.

“ _Married_ , Tom?” he asks once they’re back in the privacy of Tom’s office.

Tom doesn’t even deign to look up from his laptop. “I don’t see you coming up with a better solution, _Greg_ , if that even is your real name.”

“Wha –” _What_? So first Tom basically forces Greg to marry him and now he’s _mad_ at him for daring to have secrets?

“Look, I’ve emailed legal, they said they’d sort out the paperwork for us, and PR fucking loves me so they’ll keep it all as quiet as they can.”

Greg doesn’t have the heart to tell him that PR, who he interacts with on Tom’s behalf a _lot_ , can’t actually stand him, but that they’ve probably got orders from the family to keep it quiet because, well, because Greg’s family and this is the sort of thing they don’t want attached to the Roy name.

“I don’t care about paperwork, Tom!” Greg grips the back of a chair to keep from throwing his hands in the air. “I googled it, we could get _five years in prison_. Prison, Tom! What the _fuck_!”

Tom looks up, with his signature ‘Greg is being an idiot’ look on. “You’d rather I left you to rot in Canada? You’ll never make it back, no matter what they say. Even with your whole – deal, with Kendall.” He pauses for a second and frowns, cocks his head. “What _was_ that, by the way? Are you fucking him? I’m a pretty modern guy but that _has_ to stop while we’re married.”

“Dude, gross, no. He’s just my cousin. He’s my _cousin_.”

Tom’s hand, which had reached up to scratch at his ear, falls to the table with a thud. He stares at Greg like Greg’s just told him he killed a guy. He closes his eyes for a second, breathing slowly, then he looks back up at Greg.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he starts, slow and balanced, “that you’re a _Roy_? And you never thought to mention it?”

It’s nice, for once, to feel like he has some kind of power over Tom. Besides the whole blackmail-y ‘I kept the incriminating documents you told me to destroy’ kind of power that he’s been keeping a secret, of course. So he smirks and says “how could I have, when, like, we’ve only been talking about _you_ for the past two years.”

Tom gives him a withering look. “Cool it, guy, I’m still your boss.”

“Sorry.”

“So, the Hamptons?”

“Oh, right.” Greg can’t imagine Tom in the Hamptons. He’s too new money, too urban. He belongs in penthouses and office blocks, not mansions with several acres of land and a private beach. Unfortunately, if they’re gonna do this thing, and it’s looking like they are, Tom has to be introduced to the family outside of work. How difficult could it be? “Right, um, it’s my Uncle Logan’s 80th birthday, so we’re doing a whole… thing.”

Tom looks at Greg quietly for another few moments, expression neutral but with his eyes lighting up in excitement. “Okay,” he says finally, picking up his phone. “Make sure my driver knows your address, we’ll pick you up tomorrow at 8.”

*

Whatever Tom had been expecting the Roy family’s mansion in the Hamptons to be like, it couldn’t possibly live up to the – palace is the only word for it, really – that he watches in awe from the car window as they approach.

The driveway leading up to it has to be about a mile long, and the gardens on either side are packed with vibrant flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges. There’s a huge fountain in front of the entrance that the car drives around like a traffic circle to pull up in front of the huge carved wood double doors.

 _This_ is luxury. This is money, real money. Tom, in his tailored Armani suit, already feels out of place, too poor. They’ll know, the second they lay eyes on him, that he’s not one of them.

He glances to his side at Greg, who grimaces. Why is _he_ worried? He’s family. He is, by definition, one of them.

“Last chance to back out, Tom,” he says, shakily.

Tom just pats his hand and climbs out the car.

When the car’s driven off, down some side path to what looks like stables, Greg steps forward and stands next to Tom, looking up at the doors.

“You gonna – knock, or?” Tom’s sure as hell not doing it himself.

Greg doesn’t look at him to reply. “Wait for it.”

Tom waits.

A second later, one of the doors swing open and a man – a butler? Do people really have _butlers_ out here? – waves them in. Greg goes in first, Tom hovering awkwardly behind him.

Once inside he sees a short (ish. Everyone’s short to him) woman with dark hair standing with a forced smile. Marcia Roy, Logan’s wife. He’s never met her, obviously, but he recognises her from – well, from anywhere that posts photos of billionaires and their wives.

“Greg, it’s so nice of you to come,” she greets, holding her arms out. Greg leans down to let her kiss his cheeks, looking every bit the giraffe he is. “And you’ve brought a friend!”

“Right, um,” Greg smiles and puts a hand on the small of Tom’s back, pushing him forward ever so slightly. It’s simultaneously awkward and the most intimate contact Tom’s had in a while. “Marcia, this is Tom Wambsgans. Tom, Marcia. Tom, uh, runs ATN?”

Tom smiles his most charming, most handsome smile and holds out a hand for her to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Roy.”

“Please, call me Marcia,” she replies, still with that same smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on through, boys, we’re still waiting on some of the others. Do you want some champagne? hors d'oeuvres? ”

They follow her through to a huge living room, where a handful of people are sitting around chatting quietly. There’s Roman Roy, co-COO and therefore technically Tom’s boss, sitting on the arm of a couch with his feet on the seat, sipping at a champagne flute and laughing at whatever Gerri Kellman (general counsel, of course, he has to deal with her a lot. Not a Roy but from what he understands she might as well be) is saying from her spot on the same couch. There’s a blonde woman typing something on her phone on the opposite couch. Tom vaguely recognises her but couldn’t possibly guess her name, he figures she’s probably just someone’s partner. Much like him, he realises with an internal cringe.

No sign of Logan yet, thank god, Tom always dreads his rare encounters with him, and Kendall’s apparently not arrived yet either. The only other person there is Shiv Roy, standing in the corner away from everyone else as she mutters into her phone. She shoots Tom a polite smile, like she knows who he is but also very much like they’ve never met and she’s not sure what he’s doing there, before turning away and facing out the window.

They have met, actually. Just once, years ago, at a party where she’d spent the entire night flirting with Tom and getting progressively drunker, so he’s not surprised she doesn’t remember him. Still, he’d always hoped he’d made an impression. Apparently not.

When Roman catches sight of Tom he turns away from Gerri and looks at him with a bemused smile, head cocked to one side. “What the fuck is Tom Wamb doing here?” he asks, handing his glass to Gerri so he can get up and walk over to them. “Did Dad turn this into a corporate retreat without telling us?”

Marcia, who had taken a couple of glasses from a waiter and is handing them to Tom and Greg, tuts and shoots Roman a Look. “Tom is here as Greg’s guest,” she says. Tom shifts awkwardly on his feet, suddenly feeling like all eyes in the room are on him.

He turns to look at Greg, who’s looking just as uncomfortable as him. His jaw is clenched, his cheeks are tinged with pink, and he’s staring straight ahead. Again, Tom doesn’t understand why _he’s_ worried, until he sees Roman wince.

“Greg brought a boy home?” he asks, glancing back between the others. “Is that even allowed?”

The blonde woman snorts but doesn’t look up from her phone. Shiv, whose call must have ended, rolls her eyes and strides over. “Ignore my idiot brother, Tom, there’s no problem here. It’s nice to meet you,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “You’re head of ATN, right?”

Tom smiles as he shakes her hand, feeling his shoulders relax. Business small talk was easy. “I am, yeah. And _you_ work for the guy who wants to shut us down.”

She smirks approvingly, looking him up and down. “Nothing personal, of course.”

There’s a moments pause, and Tom’s wondering if he should go find a seat or if he should wait to follow Greg’s lead, when Roman blurts out “I’m not a homophobe!”

The first time they met, when Tom had finally got high enough up the ladder to be considered relevant, he’d actually thought Roman was gay. He’s pretty sure most people have the same first impression. But then he’d spent more time with him – meetings and corporate retreats and press conferences, and his opinion never changed, exactly, but he’d started to notice how frequently Roman would slip up and say something offensive. But then _everyone_ does, at Waystar. It’s just the culture there.

“It’s just,” Roman continues after another awkward pause, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, historically speaking, there has in fact been a ‘problem’, hasn’t there?”

Roman’s words do not exactly fill Tom with hope, but Greg still isn’t looking at him and it doesn’t seem like the right time to ask what he actually _means_ , so he tries to let it go.

“Enough, Roman,” Marica warns, before clapping her hands once and walking to the centre of the room. “Shall we play some music?”

*

Friday morning goes by without much incident. After the initial weirdness from Roman, everyone seems not quite thrilled but at least _fine_ with Tom being there, which eases some of Greg’s worries. He introduces Tom to Tabitha, who seems fascinated by him and insists he stay back and talk with her while Greg wanders around.

He’s not a big fan of the summer palace, it’s always seemed too big to him, too showy. When the kids back at his suburban private school used to talk about their beach houses, they always meant actual houses that were near the beach, not… whatever this is, that Greg was shipped off to for a couple weeks each summer instead of camp.

Roman’s gone back to talking with Gerri and he’s never got on that smoothly with Shiv, so he hovers near Marcia instead, complimenting her on the appetizers that she obviously didn’t cook.

He’s almost run out of small talk when Connor arrives with Willa, thank god, and he immediately makes a beeline over to them, folding himself over to give Willa a hug. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tom watching him, frowning slightly like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

He gives Connor a pat on the shoulder because it would be rude not to acknowledge him after being all over his girlfriend, but then he takes Willa over to the appetisers to catch up. Maybe it’s rude, to not let her mingle, but she’s been out in New Mexico for almost two months and the city’s been starting to feel boring without her there.

But before he can ask about her, she grins and pokes him in the shoulder. “Connor said that Roman texted to say that you brought a _guy_ , Greg,” she says, at least having the decency to lower her voice so nobody can overhear. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“Oh, um,” Greg starts, looking down at his shoes. He’s never been a particularly great liar, and he feels especially guilty because from the moment they met Willa’s been the one he shares all his dating woes with, the one he could just act like a regular guy around. “It was kind of, like, a secret? Because he’s my boss, and it’s ATN, so…”

He looks over at Tom, who notices and looks away from Tabitha for a moment to give him a quick smile. Willa follows his line of sight, sipping at her champagne as she silently appraises him.

“Him? I guess he’s cute, in a boxy kinda way. You guys must be pretty serious, huh, to be bringing him out here.”

“Ha, yeah,” Greg says, tucking some hair behind his ear. “I guess. But hey! How’s your play coming along?”

It’s easier just to let Willa talk for a while, just nodding and ‘uh-huh’ing whenever necessary, and it’s hardly a chore when she genuinely is just _so_ interesting, Greg has never understood why his cousins don’t like her (well, besides the obvious).

Kendall arrives just before lunch, kids in tow with a nanny but no sign of Rava, who’s probably out somewhere enjoying her Roy-free life. He looks awkward, same as always, like he’s there but not really _there_ , and he goes around greeting everyone, thankfully even having a few friendly words for Tom.

It’s only when Marcia announces that lunch is ready that Logan appears and they all head into the dining room, waiting for him to take his place at the head of the table before they sit down. Greg is sat across from Tom, who’s having his ear talked off by Connor. He doesn’t bother to listen in, too busy making polite small talk with Gerri, but knowing Connor it’s something about Napoleon.

It’s when the soup bowls are being cleared away that Logan looks down the table and seems to notice Tom for the first time, frowning.

“Is there a reason,” he asks, everyone else falling silent at the sound of his voice, “that one of my shithead executives is at my _family_ birthday weekend?”

Tom looks at Greg, like he’s checking if he should say something, so Greg gives a miniscule shake of his head. There’s a long moment where nobody says anything at all.

“I suggested it, Dad,” Kendall says eventually, staring at his plate. “He’s, uh, he’s with Greg.”

The summer Greg was 16 he’d been sent home from the Hamptons 3 days early because he’d been caught making out with a boy he’d met on the beach, another one of the bored rich kids forced to spend their summers out there. Logan, normally so uninterested in Greg and what he got up to on his visits, got mad, giving him a lecture about upholding the Roy reputation and being careful not to do anything to tarnish it.

The stare he’s getting now makes him feel like he’s shrinking, turning back into awkward kid who’s not yet caught up with his growth spurts.

“With Greg, huh,” Logan says, turning to look at Tom with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for the kind of guy to fuck his secretary, Wambsgans. Maybe you’re a better fit at the company than I thought.”

“Um,” Tom says. “Th – thank you, sir?”

“But then again, most of my employees wouldn’t have the nerve to fuck my nephew and then come out here parading around like it’s something to be proud of.”

The table goes eerily silent. You could hear a pin drop onto the soft linen tablecloth.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Roman says, and it’s kinda weird that he’s jumping to Greg’s defence when just a couple hours ago he was saying the same thing, but Greg’s still too tense to really register it. “If Connor’s allowed to bring his hooker then Greg should be allowed to bring his fucking – sugar daddy, or whatever.”

Logan looks at Roman for a long moment, taking a sip from his wine glass while Roman starts to shrink in on himself. Marica is looking studiously at her plate, but everyone else is looking between Tom and Greg and god dammit, he’s gonna have to say something, isn’t he?

“He’s not my, uh, my sugar daddy, though,” he says, trying to give Tom what might pass as a loving smile. “He’s my fiancé.”

“Well fuck,” Roman mutters.

At the head of the table, Logan observes Greg for a second, his stern expression slowly melting into a smirk. “Oh,” he says, “I can’t _wait_ to see the look on my brother’s face when you tell him you’re marrying my head of news. Nice one, kid.”

*

Tom flops back onto the bed and groans, putting a hand over his eyes.

It’s not that his day has been _bad_ , exactly, it’s more that he feels like he’s Alice trying to stumble through Wonderland while still maintaining his professional credibility. And he can’t even complain about it to Greg (one of his favourite pastimes), because he’s the one forcing Greg to go along with this.

God, he’s an asshole.

Actually, no, it’s the _Roys_ who are assholes. How Greg grew up around them and managed to come out of it passably normal and well-adjusted he has no idea.

“Are they always so…” he can’t find an appropriate word, so he just waves his free hand around vaguely.

“Intense?” Greg provides, sitting down at the very edge of the bed. “Pretty much, yeah. Sorry.”

“And you couldn’t give a girl some warning?”

Greg chuckles, which Tom takes as his cue to shuffle up into a seated position, leaning back against the masses of pillows by the headboard. For a moment he just sits there watching Greg, who’s looking down at his fidgeting hands, brow creased.

“Hey,” he says, more gentle than he’d thought he was capable of. Greg turns his head to look at him. “Is this – are you still okay with this? Because it feels like maybe you’re not, and I mean. If you’d really rather go back to Canada, I’d get it.”

“You were the one insisting I stay.” Greg smiles, short and tight, before tilting his head up to look at the ceiling. “And I know this is about, like, _the thing_ , but it’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Plus, you were right before. There’s nothing for me in Canada, my whole life is in New York. And, like, maybe this is dumb, but I really like my apartment?”

Tom can’t help but snort at that. “You’re going along with committing immigration fraud so that you don’t have to find a new apartment.”

Saying that, it hits Tom that oh, god, they’re gonna have to live together while they’re married. He’s not lived with another person since _college_ , he doesn’t know how to – how to share his stuff, how to grocery shop for two people, how to negotiate what channel the TV’s on. It all seems like the sort of stuff he should’ve learnt, at some point.

“Hey, Tom?” Greg asks, climbing further onto the bed until he’s sitting cross-legged at the opposite end to Tom. “It’s still pretty early, and legal sent me, like, a list of questions we need to prepare for the interview with immigration next week? And I was thinking we could maybe go over it?”

How hard could it possibly be, Tom wants to say, but instead he just waves Greg ahead.

“Right, well, uh, I already know everything about you, ha, so this is more for you than me.” Greg pulls up his phone and taps at it for a second, squinting to read what’s displayed on it.

“Bull _shit_ you know everything about me,” Tom says, leaning forward and reaching for Greg’s phone. He scrolls past the ‘relationship history’ and ‘living circumstances’ questions and onto the ‘personal information’ section, looking for the harder questions, the sort of things that can’t ever have been relevant to Greg performing his role as assistant.

“Where did I go to college?”

Greg doesn’t even blink before answering. “Princeton. Then Columbia for your MBA.”

“What time do I wake up?”

“Half five, to go for your run.”

“What coffee do I drink?”

Greg doesn’t deign that one with a reply, just raises an eyebrow. Okay, fair enough. “How much do I earn?”

“About 2 million a year, I think?”

There’s a lot more work related questions, which are all pointless because of _course_ Greg knows where he works, they _work there together_.

Greg’s more than proved his point, but now that Tom’s got started he’s itching to catch him out, so he starts reading out more questions.

“What colour are my eyes – don’t _look_ , that’s cheating!” “Blue.” “What cologne do I wear?” “Tom Ford, but you change scents with the seasons.” “Sports team?” “You do _not_ watch sports.”

“Do I have any tattoos?”

This one, finally, makes Greg pause, lips pursed. Ha. “I’m pretty sure you do? I just don’t know what. Or where. But last year you made me cancel a dermatologist appointment and, like, when I called she said something about lasers?”

At what point does being observant teeter over into nosiness, Tom wonders, because it seems to him that Greg has been toeing that line for a while now. He’s _not even a good assistant_ , dammit, what is he _doing_ with all this knowledge?

“I’m impressed,” he says, handing the phone back to Greg. “Is there anything you _don’t_ know?”

Greg scrolls for a second, eyes flitting quickly over the words on the list. “I don’t know anything about your parents. Are they –”

Tom cuts in. “Alive and well in Minnesota, as far as I’m aware. We don’t need to go over any of that.”

“Actually, we do? It’s like, pretty high up on the list?”

“We _don’t_ , Greg.”

There’s a few moments where Tom worries that Greg is gonna push, because he’s right. Family information, especially details about in-laws, will be among the first things they get asked. But the moment passes, and Greg just nods his head like he thinks Tom’s being reasonable and continues to read off the list.

“So our, um. Relationship,” he starts, eyes fixed on the screen to avoid looking at Tom. “What are we saying for our backstory?”

“Keep it simple,” Tom says. “We met at work, obviously. Lot of late nights, weekend conferences, we got close, started fucking, what, like a year ago? Kept it quiet because of the whole ATN thing, which is why you kept your apartment –”

Greg splutters, cutting him off. “Why do you assume we stay in _your_ apartment?”

Tom blinks. “Because I have a condo on Park Avenue.”

“I have a four bedroom in Tribeca!”

Wait, what? Tom knew he lived in Tribeca, obviously, he’d been in the car when they picked him up that morning, but he’d assumed it was in a shitty studio apartment because _really_ , Tom knows what he’s paying him and it’s not that much. “Wha –” he starts. Greg shrugs in response.

“Kendall lets me use it.”

Ah, right. More nepotism.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, trying to shake the irrational jealousy in the back of his mind. “I own my place, you don’t own yours. Hence, we stay at mine. Happy?”

Greg’s pouting, but he nods anyway and Tom continues. “Let’s say I proposed a month ago, no ring because again: secret.”

“Why did you propose to me?”

“Haven’t we been over that already?”

“No, not –” Greg starts, blushing. “I know it’s because – I mean – for the story, they’re gonna ask. Lotta guys fuck their assistants, y’know, but most of them don’t marry them?”

“Oh.” Keep it simple, he thinks, keep it believable. What the hell would a guy like Tom see in a guy like Greg? He’s easy to talk to, he’s not too hard on the eyes? Is that enough to want to spend a life with someone? Tom wouldn’t know. “I don’t know, let’s… keep it vague. Let’s say I just woke up one day and realised I couldn’t bear the thought of living without you.”

There. That could work.

*

Greg wakes up early on Saturday morning to the sound of Tom’s phone ringing.

This is the problem with working in news, he thinks, it’s a 24/7 kind of deal which for Tom means he gets to feel busy and important and for Greg means he gets barely any time to sleep or, like, go out.

The phone is still ringing, apparently it’s not managed to wake Tom up. Greg gets up from the small couch he’d been curled up on (Tom had refused to share the bed) and rushes over to the bedside table the phone is resting on, not even stopping to stretch his stiff and aching joints.

He picks it up. “Tom Wambsgans’ phone.”

Greg’s voice apparently does what the ringtone failed to do and wakes up Tom, who rolls over and squints at Greg, holding out a hand for his phone. A good thing, too, because it’s Cyd on the other line and she sounds pissed.

He watches quietly, careful not to interrupt the call as Tom climbs out of bed and pulls on a robe, keeping up a stream of ‘uh-huh’ and ‘no, yeah, sure’ as he does so. He’s dressed only in a t-shirt and boxers, leaving his toned arms and legs on display and making Greg feel horribly overdressed in the matching button-up pyjama set he’d packed.

Tom starts pacing back and forth, but he pauses for a moment when he catches sight of Greg watching him. He stares, just for a second, then shakes his head and makes a shooing gesture between Greg and the door.

Greg is used to being kicked out of rooms by Tom, so he’s not too fussed. He glances at his phone and sees it’s coming up to breakfast time, so he quickly grabs some clothes out of his bag and retreats into the bathroom to get ready, safely out of Tom’s way.

He stays in there longer than he needs to, hovering just by the door until he’s sure Tom’s hung up the call, then he waits a minute more and shuffles out.

Tom has his laptop out and is typing frantically on it, but the sound of the bathroom door prompts him to briefly glance up at Greg in acknowledgement.

“Uh,” Greg says, fiddling with the cuff of his light blue sweater, “everything okay?”

“Ravenhead’s been _tweeting_ ,” replies Tom, frowning. “And now another one of my anchors is threatening to walk ‘in solidarity’, Greg, _fuck_.”

“Is there, like, anything I can do?”

“No,” Tom bites out, then he pauses, shuts his eyes, and sighs. “No, and there’s nothing I can do that Cyd won’t do better, is there?”

Greg feels like he should be jumping to defend Tom’s honour like he does around everyone else, like he should be saying that Cyd is compromised, she can’t stay objective because she’s too tightly woven in with everything about ATN, and that that’s exactly why Tom’s _there_ , and that when he’s not screaming at Greg or throwing stationery at him he’s actually a pretty decent boss, but it feels weird to talk up Tom _to_ Tom, so he stays quiet.

Tom shuts his laptop and turns to face Greg, an apologetic smile on his face. “It’ll be fine, right? I mean, ha, it’s not like Logan’s gonna bring it up over breakfast.”

He’s right in thinking that Logan won’t care about such a small thing as drama with his news anchors, but he’s wrong in that Logan absolutely _will_ bring it up, just to spite Tom. But Greg doesn’t say that, because Tom’s starting to look less stressed and he doesn’t want to ruin that.

Instead, he says nothing and lets Tom walk past him into the bathroom to get ready, perching on the couch and opening up his phone while he waits. He has about fifty new emails sitting in his work account, but he scans the subjects and it looks like they’re all just emails directed at other people that he’s been copied in to, so he closes his email and opens up Instagram instead.

Tom doesn’t take long, maybe 15 minutes, and he walks out of the bathroom clean-shaven and wearing a tan cable-knit sweater that Greg’s seen a million times before but this time something about it makes him pause, makes him appreciate how laid-back Tom looks in it, how domestic.

His eyes must linger a second too long, because Tom catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, making Greg’s cheeks feel warm.

“This okay?” he asks, gesturing at his outfit. Greg swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, giving it only the quickest glance before staring at a spot on the wall. “Yeah, it’s fine. Let’s – we should head down.”

Tom shoots him an odd look, but then he nods and lets Greg lead the way out of their room and down to the dining room, where the others are starting to file in too.

There’s a second, just as they’re walking through the doors, that Greg feels Tom’s hand pressed to the small of his back and he forgets, for that second, how to breathe, but then it’s gone and Tom’s winking at him as he walks away towards the buffet table at the back of the room.

He follows suit, but tries to walk slowly so that he can maintain a safe distance between himself and Tom, and so that by the time he gets to the table he won’t have to sit next to him.

It’s a pretty casual breakfast, everyone eating at different paces, chatting and laughing and getting up for second helpings, or switching seats with each other to continue conversations, and Greg manages to avoid Tom for the whole thing.

It’s not a big deal, he keeps telling himself. So, Tom’s acting friendlier than usual because of the whole ‘pretending to be Greg’s fiancé’ thing, and Greg’s brain is being a bit slow on the uptake, is getting confused because it thinks all this is _real_ when, obviously, it’s not. And yeah, maybe Tom looks good today. He’s a handsome man, anyone with eyes can see that, and it’s not like he’s suddenly got _more_ attractive this weekend. It’s just Greg’s brain getting confused again, too used to seeing him in suits.

It’s not a big deal.

At some point during breakfast, a member of staff goes up to Marcia and mutters something in her ear. An unreadable expression flickers across her face, only for a second before it goes back to its usual polite smile, and then she leans closer to Logan and says something to him. He nods, and they both look at Greg. Greg looks away quickly, hoping they don’t think it was rude he was watching the exchange.

“Greg,” Marcia calls across the table, “come with me to the front door.”

Greg complies without giving it a second thought, instantly taking his napkin off his lap and shifting his chair back to get up. Nobody else seems to care, they all just carry on with their conversations.

That is, until Marcia continues. “Your grandfather is here.”

*

There’s a lot of quiet hubbub after Ewan Roy arrives, most of which Tom doesn’t understand. Sure, he knows about the rivalry between he and Logan, everyone _alive_ knows about that, but is it really such a shock that he’d come visit to wish his brother a happy birthday? The man’s turning _eighty_ , that’s a big deal!

Tom feels very much in the way. He’s not sure if he should be staying at the table, or following the others through to the closest sitting room, or going to find Greg and stand by his side like the dutiful fiancé he’s meant to be, but the option he’s chosen of ‘staying in the background with Willa and Tabitha like the WAGs we are’ doesn’t seem like a strong choice.

He likes them, doesn’t feel as on guard with them as he does with the Roys, probably because neither of them have any influence over his job and whether or not he keeps it. Tabitha, especially, intrigues him – she seems to know everyone who’s anyone, at one point he mentions the senator Cyd had been wanting him to book an interview with and she goes ‘oh hey, let me just text her’ and just like that the problem that’s been bugging Tom for weeks is solved.

They’re going shopping today; apparently Logan wants an audience with his kids and the options are go into town, hang out on the beach for hours, or loiter in their bedrooms, so they’re choosing the former and they invited Tom with.

He almost says no, because Greg had said something about going for a walk together that afternoon, but then Greg comes over from his grandpa (and doesn’t introduce Tom to him, which stings more than it should) and apologises, saying he’s been asked to go out fishing with him so they can ‘talk’, and again it stings more than it should that Tom won’t be spending the day with him.

So he just smiles and says ‘it’s fine’ because why would it _not_ be fine, and he asks for a car to be brought round to take him and the girls into town.

While they’re all stood around waiting for the car to be brought up front, Roman comes over and wraps his arms round Tabitha, leaning up to rest his head on her shoulder which she laughs at and then goes back to acting like he’s not there, even when the car arrives and he’s kissing her on the cheek goodbye.

There’s a lot of that going on, actually, now that Tom notices it. Willa’s gone up to Connor and is giving him a chaste peck on the lips as he hands her his black Amex card. It’s fair enough – they’ll be gone most of the day, apparently, and couples supposedly miss each other when they’re apart.

Oh, right. Tom’s in a couple too, isn’t he? He pats Greg on the shoulder, smiles, and though his first instinct is to say ‘see you later, buddy’ he manages to change it to “see you later, hon.”

Roman looks at them and scowls. “Jesus, Wambsgans, how repressed _are_ you?”

“Huh?”

“I get toning it down at work but what, you can’t even kiss your fiancé in the privacy of the family mansion?” he asks, smirking, “only God and a dozen of your soon to be closest in-laws watching you, or what, are you saving yourself for marriage?”

At that, Tabitha rolls her eyes and mutters ‘you can talk’, but now a couple of the others nearby are watching and Greg’s looking at him too, eyes wide, and when Tom makes eye contact he just shrugs, so Tom does the only thing he _can_ do and he puts a hand on the back of Greg’s neck and pulls him down to press their lips together.

It’s barely a kiss. Their lips have _barely_ brushed before Tom pulls away, heart pounding, and Roman is fucking _wolf-whistling_ while Tom tries to look casual, tries to act like this is something they do every day.

He smiles reassuringly at Greg, drops his hand to pat him on the shoulder once more, just for good measure, and bolts out the door as fast as he can.

His mind is whirring for the entire drive, playing the kiss over and over. It’s not because of Greg, he reasons, it’s because he’s been so starved of anything romantic for years that even the tiniest thing (it was _barely_ a kiss) makes him crave more.

Shopping, at least, helps take his mind off it. Willa and Tabitha drag him from store to store, making him carry their bags for him (‘put those shoulders to good use’), and talking about everything from politics to the New York theatre scene to ‘oh my god, isn’t this just the cutest dress?’

Tom’s never been much of a shopper. He pays people to choose his clothes for him, he has no interest in wandering around stores picking up trinkets for himself, and he’s never had anybody else he’s needed to buy trinkets _for_. Though, actually, should he have got a gift for Logan?

“I didn’t,” Willa shrugs when he asks her. “Connor got him something, but he always throws his gifts out so like, I don’t really see the point?”

“The man could buy out Macy’s if he wanted to,” Tabitha says. “Seriously, Tom, don’t worry about it. I guarantee he won’t notice either way.”

There aren’t _actually_ all that many stores on Main Street, but it feels like they go into hundreds. Eventually, Tom gives in and rather than hover awkwardly near the door he starts to browse the racks, seeing if there’s anything that catches his eye.

At one point, he lands on a salmon pink polo shirt. Nothing special, really, but his hand lingers on it long enough for Willa to take notice.

“Not really your colour,” she says glancing between the shirt and Tom. “Maybe try something in blue.”

“No, I –” Tom shakes his head, blinking. She’s right, though he feels slightly offended hearing it from someone who’s basically a stranger. He’s never been a fan of bright colours, they draw too much attention. He looks back at the shirt. “I wasn’t thinking for me.”

Willa beams at him. “Oh, you’re right,” she says, “it’s _perfect_ for Greg, he’ll love it.”

Tom freezes. He hadn’t been thinking of Greg. He _hadn’t_ , but now that the image is in his head he realises Willa’s right. It really would suit him.

What the fuck, why not. It would be weirder if he _didn’t_ get it now that it’s a whole thing, so he pulls the right size off the rack and hands it off to a store assistant.

“Good call,” Willa says with a wink. “I love Greg, but he is _terrible_ at dressing himself. Don’t you think, Tabs?”

Tabitha, who’s on the other side of the store and clearly not listening, replies “hmm?”

“Greg’s outfits.”

“Eugh.” She turns and pulls a face. “I mean, they’re fine, but that’s it, right? They’re just fine.”

The shirt only ends up being a hundred dollars, though Tom’s not really sure if that’s cheap or not because again, he doesn’t usually shop. But after buying it it’s like a dam’s burst, because everywhere he looks he thinks ‘oh, that would suit Greg’ or ‘I’m sure I’ve heard Greg mention that before’.

He manages to abstain from buying anything more (besides a gift set of candy cubes at Sugarfina, but food _doesn’t count_ ), and before he knows it they’re sitting outside a cafe drinking wine and waiting for their lunch to come out. Tom’s given up on trying to follow Tabitha and Willa’s conversation and is instead just basking in the sun, letting the words wash over him.

It’s weird, he thinks. It’s almost like having friends.

*

Greg is sitting on a foldout chair at the end of the small pier coming off the portion of beach owned by the Roys, watching his grandpa cast his fishing line over and over again.

They’ve been out there for an hour already and his grandpa hasn’t said a word to him, except to say ‘you’re disturbing the fish’ every time Greg tries to talk. He didn’t bring his phone, because Ewan hates phones and seeing one in Greg’s hands would start him off on a rant, and he can’t go back to the house because his cousins are all shut off in the study with Logan and he might get accused of spying on them.

So, he’s sitting and watching the waves roll in, trying not to fall asleep out of boredom.

“So,” his grandpa finally says, breaking the silence, “you’re getting married.”

“Oh. Yeah, uh,” Greg looks over at him, “yeah. I am.”

“You’re a little young, don’t you think?”

“I mean, I’m thirty?”

Thirty’s, like, a pretty average age for getting married, Greg thinks. And it’s not like his grandpa can talk, _he_ got married in his early twenties. Hell, Greg’s mom got married at twenty (though, of course, that’s just because she got knocked up).

Ewan looks at him, lips tight. “Perhaps it’s that he’s a little old for you.”

“It’s, um.” Greg looks down at his knees. “It’s only twelve years. Between us. And, like, we’re both adults? I’m an adult, grandpa, I can make my own decisions.”

“I don’t think you can,” his grandpa snaps, and Greg flinches from the force of it.

Greg’s failed a lot, in his life. At a lot of things. His grandpa’s been there for it all. He was there when Greg got kicked out of high school for smoking weed behind the bleachers, and he was the one who made the calls and signed the cheques that made it all go away. He was there when Greg had a breakdown and dropped out of the college he was paying for, he was there for every breakup and every time Greg fell out with his friends and every job he got fired from. He was there, watching, and judging, and he was there yelling at Greg to get his life together while he cried and cried.

And then Greg _did_ get his life together, and he got his nice job at Waystar Royco and his nice apartment and his nice friends and Ewan didn’t know how to talk to the new Greg, so he didn’t. And now Greg’s got all of that _and_ , at least from an outsider’s perspective, a nice fiancé, and he gets why it might seem like he’s getting close to breaking point again, like it’s moments away from all falling apart but for once Greg really doesn’t think that it will.

Ewan, however, doesn’t seem so sure.

Again, Greg gets it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel mad about how pathetic his own grandfather thinks he is.

“I think you’ve spent long enough messing about at Logan’s company,” he says, breaking Greg out of his thoughts. “And it’s time to come home. Look at yourself, it’s ruined you.”

Greg does look at himself. He’s wearing _really_ good clothes, he’s well fed and he’s healthy. He got a $100 haircut last week and to be honest it really suits him. He doesn’t feel all that ruined.

“I’m kinda, like, happy, though?”

“He’s brainwashed you, filled your head with all that ATN garbage.”

“That’s – I mean, that’s not really true.” Since moving to ATN Greg’s been really careful to get his news from somewhere more real, to not pay attention to what they’re saying on the screens that fill the office. And it’s not like he’ll be at ATN _forever_. It’s just a job. So it just seems a little unfair that Ewan’s using it as a reason he should leave.

“Gregory,” his grandpa says, fixing him with a hard stare, “you are quite literally _marrying_ the man who runs the so called “news” that goes against everything I stand for. You’ve been _compromised_.”

“I –”

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to quit your job. You’re going to break off your engagement. You’re going to pack up your silly little apartment and come home, and I’ll find you a new job. A _better_ job.” He raises an eyebrow. “I may not be Logan Roy but I am not without connections.”

“No.”

“ _No_ , Greg?”

Greg nods grimly. Then pauses, wonders if he should be shaking his head instead. “No.”

“I’m speaking with my lawyers next week, reassessing my will. Your name might come up.” Fuck. “I need you to think about this very carefully, Greg.”

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. “You wouldn’t, like – I mean, I’m your only grandson, can you even –”

“What do you have, boy, that could possibly be worth risking it. There are other jobs. There are other men.”

Greg shuts his eyes and breathes. In and out, in and out, counting to three each way.

He likes New York, sure, but he lived in Canada for most of his life, he _could_ do it again. He likes working with his cousins, he likes feeling included, but as far as his actual job goes it’s not all that special, he’s just an assistant. It’s not like he’s changing lives out there. And Tom…

Tom is mean. Tom is petty, and jealous, and pushy and overeager. If he _has_ morals, and Greg’s not sure that he does, he studiously ignores them in favour of chasing bigger paychecks, better titles. Tom forced him to destroy criminal evidence like their own private little Watergate. Tom throws stuff at him when he’s upset, he bullies him relentlessly, and Greg is pretty sure he’s Tom’s only friend.

Greg has never needed Tom, he’s just the asshole Kendall assigned him to when he asked for a job.

Tom might need Greg.

Is that enough? Could _anything_ be enough for him to risk losing the inheritance he’s been waiting for his entire life? A fake marriage and some extra bonding time with his cousins, _god_ , he’s an idiot.

He opens his eyes and looks out at the bright blue sea. “I’m sorry, grandpa,” he says, hands trembling. “But I’m not leaving.”

*

There’s a weird vibe when they get back from shopping in the late afternoon. Tom walks in, folding up his sunglasses, and follows a member of staff through to the patio at the back of the house.

The Roy siblings are all sitting around on chairs and sunlounges, drinking cocktails and, notably, not talking to each other. Logan and Marcia are nowhere in sight, and further off into the garden, Kendall’s kids are running around with water guns, their laughter only making the silence more prominent.

Tom accepts a glass of sangria and immediately tries to locate Greg, but he’s not there. Maybe he’s still with Ewan? Surely they can’t have been talking for all these hours.

“Is Greg inside?” he asks, not directing it at anyone specific, instead just hoping someone will notice he’s talking and deign to give a response.

Shiv looks up, shifting her wide-brimmed hat up so it’s no longer covering her eyes. She takes a sip from her straw. “I think he’s out on the beach, don’t worry about it.”

That she’s telling him not to worry makes Tom, who really hadn’t _been_ worried, think that maybe he should be. He goes over to the pergola near Shiv’s lounger and leans his shoulder against one of the poles.

“He’s with his Grandpa?”

“Uncle Ewan? No, he left a while ago. Greg’s just,” she waves a hand vaguely, “you know. Angsting.”

Tom doesn’t know, but she’s acting like it’s a common Greg Thing that someone like his fiancé would know about, and so Tom, of course, has to pretend he _does_.

“Ah, right.” He nods, once, then goes to put down his glass on the nearest table. “I guess I’ll go look for him.”

Shiv glances at her brothers, pulling a face like ‘get a load of this guy’, though they’re mostly too wrapped up in their own things to react. She looks back at Tom. “If you want, but he’s always back by dinner, so…” she shrugs, then reaches down to pick up the book on the ground beside her and start reading.

This is clearly a dismissal, so Tom turns away and gets his phone out, shooting off a quick ‘I’m back’ text to Greg that stays undelivered, and he goes inside and asks for the quickest route to the beach.

It’s still a twenty minute walk, even with Tom’s long legs, and then when he gets to the empty stretch of beach he has to take off his shoes (he’d failed to think ahead and change into more suitable ones before he left) and make his way across the sand to where Greg’s sitting near the water.

He turns at the sound of Tom approaching, eyes widening when he sees who it is. He turns back to face the tide.

“Go away, Tom,” he says, a hand reaching up to hastily wipe his face.

Tom doesn’t reply, he just sits himself down next to him.

God, he’s never gonna get the sand out of these shorts. He can already picture the look of annoyance on his dry cleaner’s face.

Greg turns his head to look in the opposite direction, though not so quickly that Tom doesn’t notice his red-rimmed eyes. “Seriously, I just. I need to be alone, right now?”

“Well tough fucking luck, buddy.”

For a moment, they sit there in silence, staring out at the sea watching the tide slowly go out, but then Greg gets up and starts pacing away, forcing Tom to scramble to get up and follow him.

“God, Tom, what part of go away do you not understand?”

“I just –” Tom says, doing a small jog to catch up to Greg, grab his elbow. “I’m here. For you. If – if you need me.”

“Well I _don’t_ ,” Greg replies, shaking Tom’s hand off.

“Greg –”

“Shut _up_!” Greg yells, and Tom instinctively takes a step back at the sudden volume. “Fuck, you don’t even…” he trails off and turns away from Tom, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it. You wouldn’t get it, anyway.”

“Then _explain_ it to me Greg, help me get it. We’re meant to be partners here.”

“ _Fake_ partners.”

“Real enough. Look at me, Greg.” Greg stops walking and turns, slowly, staring at his feet. His cheeks are flushed when he looks up at Tom, his jaw clenched.

“Greg. I’m here.”

“I need –” Greg starts, his voice cracking. He stops and shakes his head. “I need you to promise you’ll take care of me.”

Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that what I’m doing, with this whole – thing?”

“No, Tom, I mean – even after we’ve, like, fake broken up our fake marriage. I need you to promise you’ll take care of me, because I think I just turned down a quarter of a billion dollars?”

Tom’s stomach flips. That’s more money than he could ever hope to earn in his life, _fuck_. It seems stupid, now, but he’d thought Greg’s side of the family was – well, not _poor_ , but definitely not that fucking rich.

“Yeah, buddy,” he replies, mouth dry. “Yeah. Of course I will.”

Tom has never had to take care of another person. Or, if he has, it’s not a responsibility he ever took seriously before. It’s just always made more sense to put himself first. When he was younger and he was forced to choose between boyfriends and getting a leg up at work, he would never think twice about choosing work. And then he grew up and thought maybe he was ready for that to change, but the opportunities stopped presenting themselves and for years now he’s not had to choose anything at all, because all there is is work.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He’s going to ruin Greg’s life. Fuck, he probably already has.

His whole body is screaming at him _get out now!_ , but he’s standing there watching Greg, and Greg’s shoulders relax and he smiles, this soft private little smile like they’re the only two people in the world, and here on this empty fucking private beach it almost feels like they are.

“Thanks,” Greg says, softly.

Fuck. He’s fucked.

*

Dinner, and the post-dinner drinks, run late, so it’s past 11 by the time they get up to their bedroom to sleep.

Greg’s completely wiped out, it’s been an intense day and he desperately wishes he could just collapse onto the huge, soft, comfortable bed and sleep for 12 hours. He can’t, of course, because Tom’s got dibs on the bed, so instead he gets his blankets and tries to find a comfortable position on the couch for the second night in a row.

When Tom walks out of the bathroom and pulls back his sheets he pauses, looks at Greg, and raises an eyebrow.

“Christ, you look pathetic,” he says, and he waves at the bed. “Go on, get in.”

This seems like a trick. He doesn’t move. “Huh?”

Tom rolls his eyes and huffs. “Whatever, it’s a big bed. I’m not gonna ask again.”

For a moment, Greg just watches Tom, waiting for the punchline. Tom watches him.

When a punchline doesn’t come, Greg realises _oh, he might actually be serious_ , and he clambers off the couch and into the bed as quickly as he can, in case Tom withdraws the offer.

God, these _pillows_. Greg feels like he’s melting into them, he should check if there’s a label so he can buy some for himself.

Once Greg’s under the covers, Tom slowly climbs in himself, lying on his back too so they’re both facing the ceiling, almost a metre of bed between them.

“Thanks,” Greg mutters.

“It’s nothing.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, and it only takes a couple of minutes for Greg to start drifting off to sleep, exhausted as he is.

It’s nice, sharing a bed with someone. Sure, he gets laid plenty (well, maybe not _plenty_. But enough), but his hook-ups usually leave straight after, or if it’s not at Greg’s apartment they get up and make a point of not getting into bed until Greg’s dressed and on his way out. And even this is _barely_ sharing, with such a huge bed they may as well be on separate twin beds, but he can just about feel Tom’s body heat under the covers, the slight dip of the mattress where he is, and he can hear his steady breathing. It’s comforting.

He’s almost completely asleep when he hears Tom ask “so what’s the deal with your grandpa?”

Nope. No way, he’s not talking about that, not in the middle of the night in a mansion in the Hamptons, maybe not ever. “That’s, ah, that’s not on the list of questions from legal.”

He doesn’t look over, keeps staring up at the ceiling, but he hears Tom sigh. “Right.”

There’s another few moments of silence, where Greg thinks maybe he should turn over and have another go at falling asleep, but just as he’s made up his mind to do it Tom starts speaking again, his voice so soft it’s barely more than a whisper.

“I’ve not spoken to my parents in nearly twenty years.”

“Oh,” Greg says, because really what _else_ is he meant to say? ‘Sucks to be you, Tom, but I call my mom every week’? or even better, ‘my dad walked out when I was ten so look at me, I’m just as miserable as you’?

“I had a happy childhood,” Tom continues, “it was kind of perfect, actually. My parents were lawyers, and we had this big house in the suburbs of St Paul. I was always the popular kid, you know, I was well-off, I got good grades, I did sports. I was student body president and everything. And I was an only child, right, so my parents doted on me. But I always – I don’t know, I always felt slightly off. Like I was playing a part.”

Greg turns his head on the pillow to look at him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling, clasped hands resting on his stomach.

“College was the same, I guess. I played lax, joined a frat, kept up a 4.0. Had a lot of friends, realised why I wasn’t interested in girls.” He pauses for a second, chuckling as he wipes a hand over his face. “God, I always thought I was so _mature_ , so, like, above the whole puberty mess my friends were stuck in, but a cute guy flirts with me at a party _one time_ and that all goes out the window. It was like a revelation, ha, I think I slept with half the guys at Princeton. Never told my frat brothers, _never_ told my parents.”

“Tom…” Greg starts, waiting for Tom to turn and meet his eyes before he continues. “Why are – it’s not that I don’t, like, appreciate it, but why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know,” Tom says. “I just. I know I can be an asshole, I don’t… I don’t always like who I am. And I know I’m a difficult person to trust, so I thought. I’ve never told anyone this.”

He gives Greg a little half smile, eyes sad, and Greg’s chest clenches. He turns away, looks back up at the ceiling before his stupid face shows Tom more than it should.

He hears Tom turn back too.

“Anyway, I had a feeling, about my parents, about what would happen if I said something. So I didn’t. They were paying my tuition. I waited until I was done with my MBA and I had a job and a shitty little one bedroom in Brooklyn, and then I flew home for thanksgiving and I told them I was gay and they said not to come back and I haven’t seen or spoken to them since.

“So yeah. That’s really all there is to me. My whole life has been about my career. I’ve never had a serious relationship, apparently I’m ‘difficult’ to be with, ha. Don’t really have any friends, same problem, plus the people at ATN don’t like that I’m gay and my old gay friends don’t like that I work for ATN, so. What else... My favourite colour is light blue, I tell everyone my favourite film is the godfather but it’s actually the princess bride, I cry every time I watch it. Uh, I haven’t slept with anyone in nearly two years now, I think. I’ve stopped keeping track. Oh, and my tattoo? It’s a wolf on my shoulder, it means nothing, I just got drunk in college and paid $20 for it.”

Greg, again, doesn’t know what he’s meant to say. He looks at Tom again, whose hands are fidgeting, cracking his fingers. He looks – well, he looks like Tom. Just… softer. More vulnerable. Greg’s not sure how he’s gonna manage, back at the office, how he’s gonna look at Tom in those stupid suits every day without thinking of him here in the Hamptons, sitting on the beach in a linen shirt and khaki shorts, wearing cashmere sweaters at the dining table, lying in bed with Greg wearing a faded Eagles t-shirt.

It’s not real, though, he reminds himself. It’s not real, so he might as well act dumb and ask “you’ve really not had sex in two years?”

Tom groans and flings an arm over his eyes. “Seriously? I just bore my fucking soul to you and _that’s_ what you’re thinking about?”

“I know, sure, it’s just like, that’s a _long_ time,” Greg replies, before muttering “I think I’d, like, _die_.”

Tom uncovers his eyes, turns his head, and for a second he just looks at Greg incredulously. “Ugh,” is all he says before rolling over so that he’s lying with his back to Greg. “Whatever. I’m going to sleep.”

*

Tom wakes up feeling comfortable and well-rested, which is his first indicator that something’s wrong.

The second indicator is that he wakes up with his head on Greg’s shoulder, Greg’s arm wrapped around him, and their legs tangled together.

Oh, god.

If Tom had known of himself that he was a god damned _cuddler_ he would have never offered to let Greg sleep in the same bed as him, but Tom _hadn’t_ known he was a cuddler because, as he had explained to Greg last night (and oh _god_ did he really say that), it’s been a very long fucking time since he shared a bed with someone.

So, no. Tom would _not_ have offered to let Greg sleep in his bed if he’d known that he was going to end up clinging to him like a fucking limpet. It’s _embarrassing_. At least Greg isn’t awake yet, he’s still just lying there snoring lightly. Small mercies, and all that.

He has to get out. And fast, before Greg wakes up. His first attempt to extract himself proves unsuccessful, with Greg, still asleep, whining and holding him closer.

He could just give up, of course. It’s very tempting. He’s so _warm_ , and it’s barely past sunrise, and it would just be so much easier to stay put, to milk the opportunity for all it’s worth because this might be the only time he gets to.

But this is his dignity he’s putting on the line here, so he puts more effort into his second attempt and just like that he’s rolling out of bed and grabbing his clothes from the dresser.

It _is_ still early, and because it’s a Sunday instead of a breakfast they’re doing a brunch before the afternoon’s big party, which gives him even more time to go for a run as far away from the summer palace he can get.

He doesn’t much like running on sand, and even if he did the beaches are all private anyway, so once he’s off the Roy’s land he sticks to the roads, not bothering to make a note of any landmarks to avoid getting lost (and he is _definitely_ getting lost), because hey, what else are phones for?

Some people say the point of running is to clear your head, to just focus on your breathing and your footsteps. Tom’s always thought this is bullshit. His head has never been clear, not once in his life, and no matter how much he runs that doesn’t change.

And it’s _stupid_ , isn’t it, that when normally he’d be thinking of work, mentally planning out his day so that he’s ready to jump in when he gets back, or he’d be sticking in his earbuds and listening to a book or podcast, today all he’s doing is thinking about _Greg_. All he’s been thinking about for days now, actually, is Greg.

Tom’s well aware that he is, objectively, a terrible person. It doesn’t bug him much, because everyone he meets is terrible too. But something about this whole mess fills him with a sense of guilt, a sense of dread that he’s never really felt before. He tries to reason it out; Greg’s having issues with his family, sure, but there’s no evidence that it’s because of Tom. And yeah, if their scheme is discovered they’re fucked. Tom would feel guilty for inflicting that on _anyone_ , wouldn’t he? It can’t just be because it’s Greg.

So it’s fine.

The thing is, he wouldn’t have offered to do this for anyone else. He barely understands why he offered to do it for Greg. So maybe it _is_ just Greg.

Fuck.

It hits him, suddenly, that there’s a word for this. That this thing, this horrible cruel bitter guilty thing living in the pit of his stomach, this thing that’s been screaming at him since he stood on the beach yesterday looking at Greg, that’s been there the whole time, maybe, just quieter, this thing has a name.

Maybe if he refuses to give it one it’ll go away.

He’s been running for over an hour when he finally decides to stop, catch his breath, and think about heading back. The sun’s getting higher, the heat already starting to prickle the back of his neck, and he wishes he’d brought a water bottle but carrying one while he runs always annoys him.

He gets out his phone, doesn’t open the two new texts from Greg, and he opens his maps to figure out a route back to the house. He’s closer than he thought, maybe 3 miles away, so he figures there’s no point in a prolonged rest when he can be back in just over twenty minutes.

There’s maybe a half mile left when he sees another runner just ahead of him, red hair swaying with her steps. It’s almost a relief, to see a familiar face on the otherwise empty streets, so he picks up his pace to catch up with her.

“Hey, Shiv!”

Shivs stops in her tracks, pulling out an earbud and turning to look at Tom. She blinks, once, giving the same _is this interaction really necessary?_ vibe that her brothers often use too.

“Oh,” she says, “hey, Wambsgans. Didn’t know you were into running, too.”

Tom shrugs, “well, you know. It _is_ free, ha.”

Shiv looks down at Tom’s $500 running shoes with a raised eyebrow. “Right. Exactly.”

They stand there in awkward silence for a few moments. Tom’s not a big fan of awkward silences, but who is? One of his strongest beliefs is that the only reason other people think he’s an asshole is because he’s always trying to fill gaps in conversation with inane chat.

He’s not sure what he’s meant to say to Shiv. She’s like an alien to him.

He puts on a smile and looks up at the sky. “Nice day for it, huh?”

“Yeah.” Shiv pauses, glancing Tom up and down like she’s seeing him for the first time. She clears her throat, and gestures at the mansion looming in the distance. “You wanna – walk back, or?”

“Sure,” Tom says, glancing down at his feet as they begin to walk side by side. There’s another lapse in conversation, ugh, so after a few seconds he continues with, “having a good weekend?”

“It’s fine,” replies Shiv. She takes out the headband that had been pushing her hair out of her face and wraps it round her wrist, shaking her hair out. “I spend most of my time in DC, it’s nice to get a break from it.”

“Right.”

There’s a few seconds pause again before she glances at Tom, seems to remember that he’s a person too, and asks “oh, right, how about you?”

“I…” _feel like I’m losing my mind_ , Tom wants to say. _What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, Shiv? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I bet I’ve got you beat_. But Shiv is basically a stranger. She’s not even inside the company. Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d run into Kendall instead, maybe even Roman. “I’m having a good time!” he says instead. “It’s been nice to spend time with the family, Greg thinks very highly of you all.”

Not so highly that he ever thought to mention to Tom that he was related to them, before this weekend. Whatever. He’s not bitter.

Shiv chuckles, tucking some hair behind her ear in a way that’s annoyingly reminiscent of Greg. “He’s weird like that.”

Yeah, he really is. Weirdest fucking guy Tom’s ever met. He smiles. “I don’t know,” he says, because a doting fiancé wouldn’t be agreeing with her. Or maybe they would, who knows anymore, because Tom’s feeling pretty doting and he still does agree. “I like him fine.”

That earns him an eye roll and a push in the arm. “Didn’t take you for a sap.”

They’re within sight of the front door, now, and Tom’s attention is drifting, wondering if Greg will be up by now, if he’s waiting for Tom. Maybe if Tom’s lucky he’ll still be in those stupid matching pyjamas he’s been wearing, he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to tease him about them but it hasn’t come up. Maybe, and something in his chest flutters at the thought of it, he’ll be wearing the shirt Tom gave him yesterday.

“He’s lucky,” Shiv says suddenly, so softly that Tom’s not sure it’s meant for him to hear at all. “Expectations aren’t as high with him. The rest of us could never –” She stops and gestures at Tom, like that’s supposed to explain everything.

Tom gets to the door a couple of steps before her, and as if by magic it swings open the second he gets up the steps. It’s _not_ magic, obviously, just another of the dozens of staff milling about the place, but it’s still new enough to Tom to empress him.

He looks back at Shiv. “You’re a Roy,” he says, “you can do whatever the hell you want.”

She opens her mouth as if to say something, then shuts it and gives him a tight smile. “Exactly,” she says, “I’m a Roy.”

It’s at this moment Greg comes through the huge archway on the left of the entrance foyer, carrying a cup of coffee and beaming at Tom. It’s slightly jarring – Tom would’ve thought he’d be more upset that he left without saying anything. Apparently not.

This is not, Tom tells himself, the sort of thing to get offended over. He should be glad that Greg’s not mad at him. He _is_ glad.

Greg’s wearing the pink shirt.

He walks up to Tom, right into his personal space, and presses the cup of coffee into his hands. Tom’s already feeling too warm, and the steaming coffee probably won’t help with that, but it smells too heavenly to refuse.

“Mmm,” Tom hums, immediately downing half the coffee. He feels his energy restoring already. “I love you.”

For a split second, Greg freezes. Tom does too, when he realises that while yes, that _is_ his standard response when his assistant appears without prompt and gives him a coffee he desperately needs, things are different this weekend. Perfectly innocent things like telling a guy you love him feel _different_.

But it doesn’t have to mean anything, and it doesn’t have to be a big deal. He reaches out with his free arm to snake around Greg’s waist, giving him a light squeeze like _remember we have an audience here_.

That snaps Greg out of it and his previous smile returns, maybe just the slightest bit more strained than before. “Figured you’d need it, so I asked someone to tell me when you got back.”

Tom’s insides are starting to feel all warm and fuzzy. Just from the coffee, of course. He catches Greg’s eye and smiles, mouths ‘thanks’ before he goes back to drinking.

Greg glances at Shiv, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Shiv, I’d have brought you some too? But I didn’t, uh, know you were out together?”

She waves a hand, saying “it’s fine. And we weren’t, anyway, we just bumped into each other a few minutes ago.”

“Right.” Greg looks at Tom, then at Shiv, then back at Tom. “So, uh. Babe. I think Marcia said it’s brunch soon? So we should, like, go upstairs so you can get ready?”

Tom is not the kind of person who fixates on meaningless little things. So he’s _not_ fixating on Greg calling him babe, because he knows, _he_ knows, that it’s just for Shiv’s sake. His brain just can’t seem to get the memo. He looks at Shiv and smiles, says “it was good running into you, see you later,” then pushes Greg in front of him and, just to prove that it’s so _not_ an issue, says “lead the way, honeybun.”

*

Tom keeps looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

It shouldn’t feel this weird, really. Tom’s always looking at him at work, watching him. Greg’s not sure he even realises he’s doing it. So he should be used to it by now.

All through brunch, every time Greg looks up he sees Tom, nodding along to whatever the others are saying to him but keeping his eyes on Greg. And no, it shouldn’t feel weird, but it still does. He keeps glancing in the mirror to check if he’s got food on his face or clothes, if his hair’s out of place.

And the thing is, it’s not like Greg’s anything special to look at. He’s not wearing anything interesting, he’s not _doing_ anything interesting, just chatting to Willa about who might show up to the party that afternoon.

The party is going to be huge, and Greg’s not really looking forward to it. It’s just gonna be a bunch of people who think they’re important making small talk and unknowingly pissing off his uncle Logan. Nobody will want to talk to him, because Greg _is_ nobody, and everyone else will be off schmoozing so he’ll be left hovering in the background eating canapés and playing on his phone.

Even Willa, usually his saviour at smaller family functions, won’t be able to help, because with a party this size Connor will be dragging her around to introduce her to everybody.

Tom will be fine, probably. If the guests are friends of Logan then of _course_ they’ll all be supporters of ATN, and while Cyd normally claims it’s _her_ job to charm these people, Tom’s made a pretty good go of it. In any case, he’ll know enough of them to have someone to talk to besides Greg, but unlike the others he can hardly introduce his partner to a bunch of conservative billionaires, and Greg is starting to wonder if it’s even worth showing up to the party at all.

He looks across the table and catches Tom’s eye again. Tom doesn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t looking, he just lifts the corner of his mouth in an almost-smile and when he doesn’t look away Greg has to instead before he gets overwhelmed by that level of focus on him.

“So what’s the game plan?” Tom asks later, when they’re back in their room getting dressed for the party.

Greg puts down the two shirts he was trying to decide between and frowns. “It’s just a party?” he says, “I don’t think there needs to be any, like, strategy to it?”

“Wear the white one,” Tom says instead of answering, glancing quickly at the shirts laid on the bed. “It’s more summery. And _yes_ , asshole, I know it’s just a party, but it’s my first party as someone adjacent to the inside and I don’t wanna break some secret rule and make your uncle hate me.”

“Right, but like. He already kinda does, though?”

Tom gives him a Look. “Real supportive,” he says, deadpan, “I can see why I’m marrying you.”

Greg watches him carefully, looking for that glint of the eye that means he needs to start backtracking as soon as possible because he’s about to say something that’ll make Tom pick up his shoe and throw it at him.

It’s not there. Tom seems – he seems _fine,_ actually. Almost amused.

“I just mean,” Greg says, slow and careful just in case he’s misreading this, “I just mean that it doesn’t really matter if you say something stupid? He probably won’t even notice you’re there.”

“Oh, so you think I’m gonna say something stupid?”

Yes. Yes, he does. “No!”

“But that’s what you _just said_ , Greg,” Tom says. He still doesn’t look mad, though, he looks like he’s fighting back a smile. Unless he’s updated his mad face and Greg is misreading the situation horribly.

“Just stick with talking to people you know and you’ll be fine.”

Tom purses his lips. He stays quiet for a moment, looking at Greg, and then he nods once. “Thanks.”

That shouldn’t have been that easy. Tom should have kicked up a fight. Greg would’ve preferred it if he had, would’ve welcomed something that even vaguely resembled normality. Instead he’s got Tom being nice to him, Tom looking at him with absentminded smiles, Tom touching his arms like he’s forgotten how not to.

It’s a trick. It has to be some sort of a trick. Or maybe Tom’s feeling ill. He gets headaches a lot, maybe it’s that, maybe it’s putting him off his game. But it can’t be that, can it, because pain makes him meaner, makes him pale and tense and ready to snap at the slightest disturbance. Maybe it’s just all part of the scheme, maybe Tom’s just that good an actor.

Greg misses the city. Nothing makes sense out here.

Like this, like what Tom’s doing now – reaching up to adjust Greg’s collar, his hand lingering on his shoulder. Greg tries to will his blush away as he catches Tom’s eye and gives him a nervous smile.

“Are we cool?” he asks, like an idiot, because Greg _is_ an idiot and all weekend he’s been forgetting how to speak.

Tom rolls his eyes. His hand is still on Greg’s shoulder. “Yes, Greg, we’re ‘cool’,” he says, and after a pause he blinks and drops his hand like it’s burning. “Let’s just enjoy the party.”

*

Tom is not enjoying the party.

It’s been nearly two hours and he’s standing around drinking champagne and nodding along to the opinions of rich assholes wearing linen suits while the sun beats down on him. Every time he thinks he’s caught a break, Cyd manages to hunt him down and drag him into yet another conversation about ATN. Everywhere he looks he sees couples, and he wishes he didn’t have to keep his own relationship so closeted because he’s not seen Greg since they came outside together and he feels it like an itch all over his body.

 _Fake_ relationship, he reminds himself, digging his fingernails into his palm. Fake.

It’s not strictly true, anyway, that he hasn’t seen Greg in two hours. He’s seen him loads. For such a freakishly tall guy he does a remarkable job of blending into the background, but Tom’s always been good at keeping tabs on him, at keeping a note of where he is in the back of his mind in case he needs him. So he looks at him, sometimes, and Greg doesn’t look back. But that’s not really _seeing_ him, it’s not saying ‘fuck it’ and ignoring his networking responsibilities to go speak to him, make bad jokes and ask him what he thinks of the food.

But that’s not something Tom can do. Obviously.

His break finally comes when he bumps into Shiv while he’s walking back from the bar and she brings him over to introduce to some guy she invited.

He looks vaguely familiar, in the way most people who run in the same circles as Tom look vaguely familiar, and Shiv introduces him as “Nate, he’s a colleague of mine.”

Nate smiles and offers a hand. “I think we’ve met, actually,” he says. Tom doesn’t remember, but he smiles in understanding anyway. “When Gil was on ATN last month, I think you’d been called down to yell at somebody.”

It’s ringing a bell. Though, really, it could be any number of occasions, because for someone who claims to hate it as much as he does Gil is on ATN a _lot_. Nate looks far too happy to be here, looking between Tom and Shiv with a dumb puppy smile like he’s actually _enjoying_ the afternoon of posturing and business politics.

“Well,” Tom replies, keeping on his fake smile, “ninety percent of my job _is_ yelling at people, so.” He chuckles, taking a long sip of his drink.

“Shiv tells me you’ve been here all weekend,” says Nate. “Can’t say I envy you that.”

“Ah, well,” he says, shrugging. “The things we do for love, right?”

He’s not sure he likes that Shiv’s been talking about him. Or, well, it’s fine, he just wishes he could know what she’s been saying. There’s a part of his brain yelling ‘everyone here is talking about you and none of what they’re saying is good’, but that’s a feeling he’s used to. And he knows, logically, she’d probably just said something like ‘this guy Tom is here too’ and moved onto the next topic.

Nate frowns, though, ever so slightly, and he shoots a questioning look at Shiv, and for god’s sake it would’ve been nice to have some kind of guide to who knows about the whole fiancé thing _before_ he outed himself to some random DC boytoy of Shiv’s.

“Oh, no. No.” Shiv brushes a hand over Nate’s elbow, and Tom watches how it instantly fixes all his attention on her. “Tom’s with Greg,” she explains, “they’re getting married.”

She says it like it’s this ridiculous thing, like ‘can you believe how silly and quaint that is’, like millions of people don’t do it every year, and Nate’s expression clears up.

“Oh, neat,” he says, “I’m getting married too, actually. Next spring.”

Poor woman, Tom thinks, looking at Nate look at Shiv. He doesn’t know her, but he hopes she’s not marrying for love. (Who _is_ , anymore?)

“How about you?” Nate asks.

“Huh?”

“You set a date yet?”

There’s yet another thing Tom hadn’t thought about before jumping into this. “Probably in a month or so? We’re just going to city hall, then dinner afterwards.” He chuckles, “I don’t need a big fuss.”

Shiv looks at him, tilting her head. “Huh.”

“What?”

“No, it’s fine, it sounds sweet. It’s just, you do seem like the kind of guy who would _want_ a big fuss.”

Yeah, Tom wants to say, he is. He wants flowers and matching tuxes and he wants people looking at him when he walks down the aisle. He wants a band and a first dance and a big fuck-off cake and an open bar, and he wants teary speeches and a honeymoon and he wants, especially, a husband who wants all that too. He wants a husband who wants _him_.

Too late for that now.

“Nah,” he lies, forcing another smile. “It doesn’t matter. I’d marry him in a barn, if that’s all there was.”

Shiv raises an eyebrow, sips at her drink. “How romantic.”

He looks away, looks over at the buffet table where he’d last caught sight of Greg, lets his eyes roam until they land on him sat down a few metres away. For the first time all afternoon, Greg’s looking back.

He snaps his head down to look at his food when Tom catches his eye, but it doesn’t really matter because all of a sudden Tom can’t breathe.

It’s the heat. It’s the crowd of people. It’s the alcohol. It’s Shiv and this stupid Nate guy, making him all self-conscious. It’s this weekend, this _fucking_ weekend and all the pressure it’s been suffocating him with.

It’s the Roys, and it’s the summer palace, and it’s the quarter of a billion goddamned dollars, and Greg is looking at him again and Tom needs to get out. Fast.

He downs the last of his drink and makes his excuses to Shiv and Nate, says something about an urgent work thing which they clearly know is bullshit but don’t argue it, and he slips through the crowd and calls his driver.

*

“Oh,” says Greg.

Shiv gives him an unimpressed look. “Hello to you too, Greg. Nice party, isn’t it?”

“What?” Greg blinks. “Oh, yeah, hi. I just – I thought I saw Tom here, a minute ago?”

Like, that was kinda the only reason he’d come over to Shiv in the first place. Not that he doesn’t want to talk to Shiv, of course. She’s his cousin, they’re sort of friends. She’s easier to talk to than Roman, at least. It’s just that it was the first time all afternoon he’d seen Tom with someone who Greg could actually _talk_ to, that they could talk to together, maybe, and now he’s disappeared.

Greg’s just bored. He’d just wanted a couple of minutes of normal conversation, it’s not specific to Tom. He’d even have tried speaking to Gerri if she’d freed up first.

Shiv scrunches up her face, exchanges a glance with the guy she’s with. Nate something, he thinks. They’ve met a couple of times but not enough for him to have made much of an impression. “Oh, he went inside, I think,” she says. “Said he had a work thing, I don’t know.”

Most of Tom’s work things either go through Greg or copy him in, and Greg’s got his work phone in his pocket and it hasn’t buzzed once, so Tom almost certainly doesn’t have a work thing. Tom’s work thing, currently, should be this party, should be talking to the people at this party. Something drops in the pit of Greg’s stomach.

Still, he thanks Shiv, nods at Nate, and heads inside too, practically jogging to their room once he’s out of sight of the garden.

Tom’s not in there.

Of course he’s not, that would make too much sense. But none of his stuff is in their either, no open suitcase, no shoes kicked to the edge of the room. All that’s left is a piece of paper lying on top of the bed, Tom’s messy scrawl all over it.

 _Greg_ , it reads, _this was a stupid plan. I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. Forget about cruises, this wasn’t about that. I trust you, I knew you’d never fuck me over. It was about me being petty and not wanting to let you go, but you should. Go fix things with your Grandpa. ~~Canada’s not so bad~~ Canada’s shit, but you can make it work. Don’t ruin your life over a prick like me. -Tom._

God fucking dammit, Greg is in love with him.

And what a fantastic fucking time it is to realise _that_ , because Tom’s probably already in a car on his way back to the city, and even if he _wasn’t_ Greg would be hunting him down right now and punching him in the face, because what kind of _asshole_ promises to take care of someone and then turns around the next day and says ‘sorry, you’re on your own. Good luck in Canada.’?

He scrunches up the note into a little ball and chucks it across the room, where it lands near the base of the now open door.

He blinks, willing his eyes to dry up so that they can focus on Willa, who’s standing there looking at Greg with her arms crossed.

“I saw you run off, wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Greg reaches a hand up to wipe his face. “I’m fine,” he sniffs.

“Where’s Tom?”

“Gone,” Greg replies, and _fuck_. Tom’s gone.

Willa, god fucking bless her, immediately steps forward and puts a hand on Greg’s arm, rubbing it gently. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Greg blurts, then stops and shakes his head. “Yes, fuck, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, like, it wasn’t real. It’s _not_ real.”

He lets himself fall back to sit on the edge of bed, elbows resting on his legs so he can hunch forward and bury his face in his hands. “I just needed a green card, and I thought what the hell, right? I’ll go along with his stupid idea, it’s a victimless crime, but then he ups and fucking _leaves_ , so now what am I meant to do?”

“Greg,” Willa sighs, rubbing circles in his back, “that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard, c’mon. I know you’re not that dumb.”

“And I didn’t even like him! I’ve worked for him _two years_ , he’s never had a nice thing to say, he’s always, like, throwing shit at me and calling me names, but we had a _deal_ and he just fucking left!”

“He makes you kinda crazy, huh?”

Greg doesn’t reply, just shrugs because yeah no _shit_ does Tom make him crazy, nobody else has ever made his head rush as much as Tom does.

“I think, sometimes,” Willa says, slowly, “that it’s a whole lot easier to pretend you love somebody than it is to pretend you don’t.”

“Tom doesn’t love me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

*

Tom’s just sat down with his second whiskey of the night when there’s a pounding at the front door. He’s getting that concierge fired, because he’d specifically told him not to let anyone up and yet here someone is, knocking at Tom’s door well past what would be considered a reasonable hour. Maybe if he doesn’t answer they’ll go away.

“Tom, you asshole,” the visitor calls from the other side of the door, and of _course_ it’s Greg, why _wouldn’t_ it be fucking Greg. “I know you’re there, your light’s on. Let me in.”

He waits another few moments before dragging himself up off the couch and opening the door. He looks at Greg, waits for him to say something, but doesn’t move to let him in.

Greg pushes past him anyway, paces to the centre of the room and spins to look at Tom, eyes wide. “You said you’d take care of me.”

The gel Tom had watched him put in his hair that morning is wearing off, and so his hair looks fluffy, mussed up like he’s been tugging at it. He’s in different clothes than he was at the party, a fact that makes that annoying guy in the back of Tom’s brain say ‘clearly he didn’t think this was important enough to come straight away’ while what little logic he has left tries to remind him that it’s a two hour drive, that he would’ve been just as offended if Greg had shown up sweaty in clothes rumpled by the stuffy car.

“You’re a grown man, Greg, you can take care of yourself,” he spits.

“You _promised_ , Tom!” Greg takes a step closer, raising a hand to point at him. “You promised, and then you left me on my own in the fucking Hamptons looking like an _idiot_.”

“Oh, please,” Tom sneers, looking Greg up and down in a way that he hopes says ‘you’re not worth more than the trash in my kitchen’ and not ‘it’s taking every fibre of my being to not jump your bones right now’. “I’m sure you’ll recover. Like it’s such a hardship, to have a family full of billionaires.”

Greg’s face falls, his expression shutters. “I thought you got it, man.”

Tom does get it. He got it the second they pulled up to the summer palace, when he’d looked over and seen Greg’s face. He got it when Logan had snapped, and when Ewan had left, and when Greg had stood there on the beach asking something of Tom that he couldn’t possibly deliver.

He shuts his eyes. “It’s like I said in my note,” he says. “I can’t do this to you.”

“Your note didn’t say shit.” Tom opens his eyes again, looks at Greg. Watches him grasp for words, try to push them through his wall of rage. “If you’re gonna _fuck_ me I at least deserve to know why! We had a deal.”

“Things changed.”

“But like, that’s just it, Tom,” Greg says. “Things _did_ change. Things changed when we kissed. And when you told me about your parents. Even just – even just this morning, when you kept checking me out!”

Tom doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, silently, watching Greg get closer step by step.

“So now I’m just – I’m just going to Canada, Tom, like you want. And I’m gonna sit around getting stoned to make it through the day at a job I’ll probably hate, and I’m gonna let my grandpa walk all over me, and I’m gonna be _miserable_ , Tom, because this asshole that the universe thought it’d be, like, funny to make me fall in love with will be in New York and I won’t, because this _asshole_ can’t follow through on his own stupid plans!”

The entire world comes grinding to a halt. There’s a ringing in Tom’s ears, and Greg is breathing heavy, his chest heaving as he stands there staring at Tom like he’s personally responsible for every crime ever committed.

“You love me?”

Greg reaches up, runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck off,” he says, but his expression is melting into a soft smile. “You wanna work this out? Right now there’s kinda only one way I can stay.”

“I have to marry you,” Tom mutters.

Greg nods. “You have to marry me.”

“Fuck it,” Tom says and surges forward, flinging his arms around Greg’s neck to pull him down into a kiss. Greg stumbles for a second, before his hands land on Tom’s back and slide up, gripping the fabric of his shirt. It’s nothing like their kiss back in the Hamptons, it’s hot and desperate and the walls still feel like they’re closing in but Tom can’t find it in himself to give a shit. “Fine,” he says, lips still brushing against Greg’s as he talks, “let’s do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you SO much for reading, please leave comments and kudos, and come check me out on tumblr @superangsty!


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